


A Different Angle

by MizJoely



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Halloween at 221B - A Sherlolly Celebration, Horror, Sherlolly - Freeform, but nothing graphic, dubcon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-17
Updated: 2020-11-07
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:20:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27056323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MizJoely/pseuds/MizJoely
Summary: Jim Moriarty is dead, Molly Hooper has a secret, and Sherlock Holmes is about to jump off the roof of St. Bart's and fake his death. A Post Reichenbach horror AU.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/Molly Hooper
Comments: 60
Kudos: 66
Collections: 2020 Halloween at 221B - A Sherlolly Celebration





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The Anglerfish Problem](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5683141) by [GettingOverGreta](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GettingOverGreta/pseuds/GettingOverGreta). 



> Warning for a dubcon scene (chapter 2).

" _Sherlock, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, if I'd known, I'd never have -"_

"Molly?" Sherlock cupped his mobile closer to his ear, the distant sounds of London traffic and the slight breeze both conspiring to reduce his ability to hear Molly's voice. Her panicky, apologetic voice - what had she done, why did she have to unburden herself now, when he was poised on the literal edge of the roof awaiting Moriarty and the end - or beginning - of the Long Game they'd been playing?

" _Sherlock, he's got snipers, assassins, and they're going to kill John and Greg and Mrs. Hudson if you don't...I'm sorry, I tried to make him change his mind but he wouldn't no matter what I tried!"_

"Molly!" he said again, more sharply this time as her words penetrated his mile-a-minute thoughts. "How do you know all this? How do you know what Moriarty has planned?"

He heard her gulp down a sob, but as always Molly came through. Pulled herself together. _"Sherlock, Ji- uh, Moriarty. He's dead."_ She rushed on before those words had time to sink into his consciousness. _"And if you don't jump off the roof and k-kill yourself, his men will kill John, Mrs. Hudson and Greg. Lestrade,"_ she added, a helpful clarification. _"I think they're watching you, watching you all. I'm sorry."_ She was repeating herself again, but at least now he knew why.

Of course, that begged the further question of just how the hell Molly Hooper had killed Jim Moriarty - unless she meant he'd met with some kind of accident? ( _That would be too much of a coincidence, he didn't believe in coincidences_.) Or did she mean he'd killed himself? _Impossible_ , he scoffed silently, the man was far too enamored of the chaos he could cause whilst living to surrender himself willingly to death.

But whether by accident or design, Moriarty was dead. He accepted the truth of it, hearing it in Molly's voice, recognizing by some mechanism he refused to identify that she wasn't under any sort of external duress. She wasn't being forced to say those words; they were the plain and simple truth.

Moriarty was dead, and John, Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson would die unless he jumped.

So be it.

"All right," he said tersely. "Good-bye, Molly." And he pressed his thumb firmly to the phone before opening a text chat to Mycroft.

_Lazarus is a go._

Two minutes later, Sherlock Holmes was "dead", John Watson was a grieving, furious mess, and Molly Hooper...had vanished.


	2. How Did We Get Here?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> OK, folks, buckle up as Sherlock and Molly put very different plans into action in the wake of Moriarty's manipulations during TRF.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My thanks to the folks in the Sherlolly discord for helping me figure out (at least loosely) some timeline issues for this chapter.

**Eighteen Hours Ago**

"You're wrong, you know. You do count. You've always counted and I've always trusted you."

Something was wrong, something was terribly, profoundly wrong. Even more than when he'd been in the lab earlier, when she'd tried to reach out to him, she could see the sadness in his eyes that the darkened room did nothing to hide. And his voice - Molly stared up at him. "What do you need?"

Sherlock stepped closer. "If I wasn't everything you think I am, everything I think I am, would you still want to help me?"

"What do you need?" she asked, proud of the steadiness of her voice as he stepped closer, closer, stopped directly in front of her.

"You," he said simply. Profoundly.

Oh how she'd both longed and dreaded hearing such a confession from him. She closed her eyes briefly, then opened them as he explained exactly how much trouble he was in.

_You were right. I'm not OK._

As Sherlock detailed the manner in which Moriarty's noose was tightening around him she felt the stirrings of a rage so incandescent that she'd had to take more than a few deep, steadying breaths to help calm herself. And when he finished, instead of trying to release it or box it up, she held onto it, barely reined it in, vowing to release it when it could benefit both Sherlock and herself - and ensure that Jim Moriarty paid for his crimes.

_Molly, I think I'm going to die._

_No,_ she vowed.

Not on her watch.

**Sixteen Hours Ago**

Two hours later she was back at her flat, pacing. Could she do it, could she actually do what she was contemplating, what had been in the back of her mind ever since Sherlock had asked for her help? He'd left her on her doorstep only two hours ago but it felt like days, weeks, months as her mind sped and spun until her head ached and she barely remembered who she was any more.

Could she do it?

She drew a deep breath, let it out slowly, hugging her arms to herself as she remembered the soft, fleeting kiss Sherlock had placed on the corner of her mouth before leaving, and her resolve hardened, the rage exploding from where she'd banished it.

_Whatever it takes._

She pulled out her mobile. Hesitated not a moment before opening her contacts and selecting the one number she'd sworn never to use again - but hadn't been able to bring herself to delete.

She held the phone to her ear. Listened as it rang. And rang. And rang.

Just as she was about to give up in despair, she heard his voice.

" _Hey, Molls, is it a cold day in hell already?"_

**Fourteen Hours Ago**

Molly once again found herself pacing nervously up and down the length of her flat, hands twisting together as she waited.

And waited.

What if he didn't come? What if she was putting herself through all this for nothing?

A series of short, sharp raps on her front door brought both her pacing and her whirling thoughts to a standstill.

Taking a deep breath, Molly forced herself to cross the room and open the door.

"Good golly, Miss Molly, don't you look ravishing!"

Molly forced what she hoped was (but knew probably wasn't) a seductive smile on her lips as she shrugged her shoulders and allowed the red satin robe she was wearing to slip to the floor. "I've been waiting for you," she said breathily. "Thank you for, um, coming." She lowered her eyes coquettishly and toyed with the black lace edging her bodice.

Jim Moriarty smirked at her weak attempt at innuendo, stepping jauntily into her flat as if he owned it, hands in pockets and looking as if he hadn't a care in the world. And why not? Molly thought bitterly. He was about to get exactly what he wanted from Sherlock - or so he believed.

_Not on my watch._

Silently reiterating her earlier vow, Molly glanced around the quiet street from behind her half-opened door, curious to see if he'd done as she asked and actually come alone. Not that it mattered; even if he had an army of footsoldiers standing on her street, none of them would be able to stop her plans once they'd been set in motion.

Even if she was killed in revenge, it would be too late to save Jim Moriarty and that would be more than enough to satisfy her.

Her, and the ravenous beast that dwelt within. The one she'd kept locked away, deep, deep down in the darkest, coldest depths of her psyche. She'd freed it only three times in her life; the first time unknowingly, the second time unthinkingly, purely out of self-defense, and the third time unwillingly. Because no matter how she tried to suppress it, to keep it contained, the damned beast within needed to be freed periodically lest she lose complete control and end up like her sisters.

A fate too ugly to be borne; she'd rather die.

She supposed she should be grateful to 'Jim from IT' for giving her this timely excuse to free her personal inner demon.

But she wasn't, and never would be. Not when Sherlock's life was on the line.

"Oh, no worries, Mollywobbles, I came alone," he said with a smirk as she automatically closed and locked her front door, her troubled thoughts plaguing her while she did so. "As requested. Oh, I did have my men check things out before I arrived, make sure I wasn't walking into some kind of ambush." He flashed her a toothy grin to show how not-worried he was about that possibility.

Of course he wasn't worried; why should he be? He'd already taken her measure and dismissed her as harmless.

Well, that was his mistake. It was almost time for the shark to meet a predator he never could have anticipated - but first, she had to try one last time to get him to change his mind.

She walked up to him, trying not to feel self conscious in her skimpy, lace-trimmed satin negligee set. "I'll do anything to save Sherlock," she said bluntly, stopping in front of him. "Anything."

"Never would have guessed," he scoffed, reaching out to pluck at one narrow red shoulder-strap. "What makes you think throwing yourself at me will change my mind, hm? Or are you willing to do more than just sleep with me?" His voice, his eyes, his very mien darkened, as if a shadow had fallen across his face. "What else do you have on offer besides your pathetic little self?"

She tried not to flinch at the insult, but the flash of glee in his eyes told her he noticed it anyway. Fine, then; no more beating around the bush. "Whatever you have planned for Sherlock, call it off."

His answering grin was cold. "And if I don't?"

Molly raised her chin defiantly. "Then I won't have any choice but to stop you."

Jim's eyes flashed with something almost like admiration. "And how, exactly, do you plan on stopping me from doing anything I want?" He stepped closer, crowding into her personal space, running a flirtatious hand up her arm then suddenly grabbing it hard, above the elbow. "Hm, Molly, love? What makes you think you can make me do - or not do - any little thing I want?"

She stared at him, willing herself not to look away - there! What she'd been waiting for! The faintest quivering of his nostrils, the slightest wrinkling of his brow...the noticeable tenting in the front of his trousers.

"Please leave him be. Call off your plan. I'm begging you, Jim. Please." _For all of our sakes'._

"No."

Molly let out a ragged breath. Damn him, he had no idea what hell he was about to unleash upon himself.

Deep inside, the predator stirred. Swam to the surface, gaining in speed as Moriarty's eyes glazed over. Molly easily pulled her arm out of his grasp. Pulled him closer to herself. Pressed his head to her shoulder, heard him inhaling deeply, felt the shudder of his body against hers.

When he raised his eyes, those soulful (she'd once thought) dark brown eyes, she smiled, pulling him even closer and pressing her lips to his.

Giving him the kiss that would seal his doom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To everyone who has been reading and commenting, my thanks. Things get, hm, very dark for Mr. Moriarty in the next chapter. That's when the fic will live up to the "horror" tag (at least, I certainly hope so).


	3. From The Depths

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for dubcon sex (nothing graphic) and Jim Moriarty's sticky situation.

Molly held him close, pressing her body against his, breathing in the changes to his scent as her pheromones continued to flood the room, to intoxicate his senses. She'd begun releasing them once she'd closed the door, in anticipation of his rejection of her pleas, and soon, very soon, he would succumb - not to her 'charms', meager as she acknowledged them to be, but to the very fact of her biology.

_Oh Mama, oh Papa, I'm sorry, I know I promised but Sherlock's life is at stake, I hope you understand._

Unknowingly, unthinkingly, unwillingly.

And now, in the coldest of cold blood.

But only after giving him one final chance.

He shook his head, his eyes refocusing on her as he came out of the daze into which he'd fallen as her initial pheromone burst dissipated somewhat. Oh, he was still under her sway whether he knew it or not, but for a few, vital moments he would have his clarity of thought. Would it be enough? Probably not, she acknowledged, but surely even the slimmest chance should be grasped, no matter how the family curse bubbling through her blood urged her to just _get on with it_.

"Please, Jim," she breathed, nuzzling his ear as his hands continued to roam over her body. "Whatever your plan is, stop it. I'm begging you."

_Molly, I think I'm going to die._

No. She would never let that happen. Not to Sherlock.

"Mm, no can do, Molls," Moriarty murmured in response, his hands gliding down her back and settling on her waist, his thumbs absently caressing her midriff. "Sherlock has to die. This fairy tale doesn't get to have a happy ending." He smiled, that sharp, toothy shark's smile. "Well, except for me. I was tired of it all, you know, ready to pick up my gun and BOOM!" He mimed holding a pistol to his head and shooting, eyes and mouth comically wide. "But suddenly Little Miss Perfect called me out of the blue and I realized two things: she wasn't at all what I thought she was, and she meant more to Sherlock Holmes than I'd been led to believe."

He kissed her again, then pulled back so he could see her face, read her expression. "How does that make you feel, Milly-Mandy-Molly, hm? Knowing that you just gave me even more ammunition to use against your not-boyfriend? Oh yes, this is going to be absolutely _delicious_." He lowered his head so his lips brushed against her ears as he whispered, "The things I'm going to do to you, Molly love, will make you wish I'd just set a sniper on you, the way I did his other pets - that bitch of a landlady, the copper, John Watson...I can't _wait_ to see how Sherlock reacts when you and I go to meet him on that rooftop later."

So. That was that, then. He wouldn't back down, wouldn't spare the others no matter what she offered, no matter how much she begged or bargained.

Fine. She'd tried.

Turning her head just the smallest bit, just enough for their mouths to meet, she kissed him again. Desperately, greedily, letting slip her last vestiges of control, allowing the monster that dwelled within the freedom to do what it - what _she_ \- so desperately wanted to do. What biology now demanded of her. Surrendering to instinct, as the women in her family had done for countless generations, she released a further burst of pheromones that clogged his every sense, narrowing his focus until she was the only thing in his universe, and he in hers. Deepening the kiss, pulling him closer, ever closer, so close they could hardly be told one from the other except no, they were still separate, still apart when she needed him closer closer _closer…_

**Now**

Jim Moriarty was a man who prided himself on his self-control. Even more, he prided himself on his ability to control everyone around him, to make them dance to his tune, to do what _he_ wanted _them_ to do.

If he'd been able to form a single, coherent thought, it might be along the lines of wondering when, exactly, had boring, ordinary little Molly Hooper gained the ability to turn him into her bitch.

But he was far too busy wildly enjoying himself as they writhed together on her luxurious king-sized bed with the down mattress topper and 500 thread-count sheets and silky duvet and oh, they were about to absolutely _destroy_ that bedding what with all the mind-blowing sex they were about to have, were having, had already had? _would have again and again and again and again and again and ag…_

He came back to himself slowly, drowsy and sated and with a coppery taste in his mouth that he recognized immediately as blood. Had he bitten her? Yes, yes he had, right on the neck, like some movie vampire, the Dracula of the criminal world. Goodness, that must have hurt but he didn't remember hearing her scream, pity, that.

Well. She hadn't screamed in _pain_. She certainly hadn't kept her wails of pleasure to herself! "Lady on the streets, wildcat in the sheets," he murmured and started to lift himself from where he'd (apparently?) just collapsed on top of the woman who thought her meager charms (which, to be fair, weren't nearly as meager as they'd appeared at first blush) would be enough to tempt him into sparing Sherlock fucking Holmes' life.

He couldn't move. Not his head, not his hands, not his legs...what the fuck had the little bitch done to him? He hadn't had anything to drink or eat ( _except_ her _, was that how she'd done it, paralyzed him, numbed him, had she laced her ladyparts with some drug he'd ingested, yeah, that had to be it, no other explanation, he'd have felt her jabbing him with a needle, no_ way _was any piece of ass so good that he'd have missed something that obvious-_ )

"What the fuck did you do to me, you stupid cow?" He could still speak, that was a plus, although his lips felt as numb as the rest of his body. And he could move his eyes; he could see the wound he'd made in her throat still sluggishly bleeding; he found himself oddly tempted to dart out his tongue and catch those glistening red drops between his lips, and resisted only because he couldn't fucking _move_ … "What the fuck did you do to me?" He screamed the words this time, struggling to move any other part of him and failing.

Jim Moriarty _never_ failed. At _anything_. And whatever drug she'd dosed him with would eventually wear off ( _unless it was poison, was she so desperate to save Sherlock Holmes that she'd actually_ poisoned _him, knowing full well that in doing so she'd sealed her own fate, was she that obsessed with Mr. Tall Posh and Cheekbones that she'd sacrifice herself to save him, of course she was, stupid, never forget how close you came to doing the exact same thing because life had become so fucking_ boring _it wasn't worth dragging on and on_ )...

"Call them off." Molly's voice, so soft, so pleading. He saw her arm move, tracked her hand as she offered his own mobile to him. "Call them off and I can - I can stop this. Reverse it. You can be free to go your way, leave London, live whatever sick life you want as long as you leave us out of your games. Leave _him_ out of your games. Call it off, Jim. Please."

"Reverse what, exactly?" he asked, fighting down the unpleasant - and entirely unwelcome - sense of panic that threatened to eat away at his control. _ **No**_ **.** "What did you do to me, Molly Hooper? What poison did you dose me with?" The panic receded a bit beneath the weight of his curiosity; despite his inability to move, despite the numbness encasing him, despite his absolute fury at being outwitted by this little nobody of a woman, he was also...excited. Yes, that was the word. Excited. Impressed. Oh. she would suffer for her affrontry, but really, it tickled his senses - of the dramatic, of irony, of humor, even - that he'd so badly underestimated her.

"Call them off," she repeated, and he rolled his eyes.

"Oh, Molly, don't turn boring on me again," he huffed. "Answer my question and maybe I'll think about calling it off. Can't make an uninformed decision, after all. That's just bad business."

She went silent; he wished his head was at a better angle, so he could judge her expression, take a more accurate measure of her resolve.

Finally she sighed and lowered the mobile, presumably letting it come to rest on top of them; at any rate, her hand was empty as she groped behind her to fumble for something on the bedside table. Ah, her own mobile, which she was now awkwardly working with one hand.

Curious, that; why not simply push him off of her so she could use both hands?

Come to think of it, why hadn't she pushed him off of her in the first place? Why keep in such close, surely uncomfortable, proximity?

_Why hadn't she at least slapped some antiseptic creme and a bandage to the wound on her throat?_

With a sense of foreboding unlike any he'd ever felt in his life, Jim Moriarty struggled to look past Molly's arm, casting his eyes down toward their bodies as best he could.

"Jim." At the sound of his name he automatically looked back up, to see her mobile screen, with a picture of their nude bodies, obviously taken at some point after he'd - blacked out? Collapsed due to the poison or whatever she'd dosed him with?

His breathing became labored, shallow, his heart suddenly pounding in his chest as he took in the full horror of the image she was showing him.

Two bodies, his and hers. The video - for video it was, not a mere still picture - showed their faces. First hers, eyes wide open and alert but sad, so, so sad. No smile on Molly Hooper's lips. And none on his; his mouth was open, slack, his eyes closed, and there was something odd about his face, about how flat it lay against her chest, but before he could decide what was so disturbing about it - aside from the fact that he'd apparently been unconscious long enough for her to film all this - the angle changed.

Panned slowly, oh so excruciatingly slowly, to show exactly what horrific, impossible thing she'd done to him.

Showed their bodies close together; the fingers of her other hand resting on his shoulder, no, not resting on, but somehow _merging into_ his flesh, as if they were a pair of melting candles puddling onto her bed together. His breath caught, his heart racing as the merciless images continued: their abdomens fused together, a partial glimpse of his rump, his thigh where it had been carelessly flung over her hip, his other leg next to hers...all melding, fusing together into one lump of pale flesh, two becoming one in the most literal sense possible, a sort of sticky sheen coating the exposed flesh, _even the fucking toes on his feet now merging together into some kind of sick fucking hoof or something…_

"Photoshop, boring," he snarled, struggling and failing to distance himself from her, from those disturbing, impossible images. Struggling and failing to convince himself of its unreality, its impossibility. "Or is it some kind of hallucinogen, is that what you gave me? Some drug cocktail to knock me out, immobilize me, make me see things that aren't fucking REAL?"

He screamed the last word, spittle flying from his lips; he saw her flinch back and smiled in vicious victory at having affected her so visibly.

It was nothing compared to what he was going to do to her, what he was going to have done to her. And to Sherlock and his three little pets. Fuck them all, no one put Jim Moriarty on the back foot, no one played him, no one tried such cheap, obvious tricks to try and control him -

He said all that and more, and all Molly did was just...lie there and take it. Oh, he heard a hitching breath now and then as he spewed insult after insult at her, but not once did she so much as attempt to move out from under him.

Not once, even when he heard her let out a distinct sob, saw the trickle of tears dripping down her chin to splash on her chest, did she push him away and run as her trembling told him she so desperately wanted to.

Not. Once.

"What are you?" he whispered as the vitriol and rage abruptly faded into nothing. As if his emotions, so extravagantly spent in that one, long rant, had been drained from him, leaving him as numb on the inside as he continued to feel on the outside. And his voice, was he whispering because he had no energy or was it because it, too, was starting to fail him?

Her response was entirely unexpected. "It's not an exact analogy, but do you know anything about anglerfish biology?"

His attempt at a shrug resulted only in an odd bob of his head. "Ugly buggers. They have little lights they dangle to lure in their prey. What else is there to know?"

"The females are larger than the males, much larger." Molly's voice took on a lecturing quality, the sort he normally tuned out, but which instead held him in a state of horrified fascination. "When the male finds a suitable mate, he bites her." She grazed her fingers across her throat, across the wound he'd given her, and sweat began to drip from his forehead. Surely his heart should be pounding in his chest right now, why couldn't he feel it?

"...latches on until their skins fuse together, until their blood vessels do the same." Molly was still talking. Explaining. He forced himself to listen to the rest, focusing on her words in order keep his mind from replaying those horrific images on her phone. "He loses much of his body until nothing is left but a pair of testacles which she can use when she's ready to spawn."

"Mmm, sexy," he mumbled, his voice sounding dream-like to his own ears - well, ear singular, he supposed, since the other one was now presumably nothing more than a lump of shared Molly-tissue, along with the entire right side of his face. If he could shudder, he suspected it would be one of those long, intensive shudders that racked one from head to toe and lasted a subjective eternity.

"Well, we're a bit like that, the women in my family," Molly continued on doggedly. "We don't know how, or why, it just is. Once you bit me, got your saliva in my blood, it triggered the Merge. But it's not too late, Jim." Her voice turned coaxing, wheedling. "I can still reverse this. Just call off your assassins and this can all be over."

Christ, was she back to that again? One track mind, this woman - or whatever she actually was. Not really human, but then again, he'd never really been human, either, so who was he to judge?

Jim Moriarty, Consulting Criminal, that's who. Time to remind her of that all important fact. "Don't lie to me, Molly-luv. Don't insult my intelligence that way. You can't reverse this, and we both know it. I can hear the lies in your voice." And he could, so clearly, as if her voice and its every subtle nuance was the only one he'd ever truly heard. As if it and her heartbeat, so steady beneath his head where it rested on her chest, were the only sounds that mattered.

Perhaps they were, he mused, considering they were literally going to be the last things he would ever hear.

It took her a moment to respond, and when she did it was soooo disappointing and predictable he could have recited it along with her word for word. "Then if you know the truth," she said, once again holding his mobile up, "make the call anyway. Please. Stop this. What's the point when you won't be around to see the fallout?"

"Sorry, Molls," he said, his voice weakening further as a weird sort of peace washed over him, so comforting in the aftermath of so much emotional upheaval. Calmness after the storm, a state he'd rarely felt. So refreshing. "No can do. I might miss the fallout, but knowing that you'll have to live with it? That's more than enough for me. And," he added before she could speak again, "don't try to feed me any bollocks about how this is killing you too. Because we both know it isn't. Your voice is strong, you heartbeat is strong, fuck me if you aren't stronger than I realized. Should've...should've known how strong you were when you kicked me to the curb. Course," he added musingly, "the curb was where I wanted to be once I was done using you, but I'd honestly expected more crying and less yelling. Guess I've...underestimated you...for the last ti…"

He fell silent, his eyes still open and staring at nothing, no longer seeing anything.

And Molly Hooper began to cry in earnest, because everything that happened next was going to be her fault.

Hand shaking, she picked up her mobile and looked at the time. He would be there, at the rendezvous point Jim had arranged before she'd lured him into her - _failed, what a horrible weight to bear, that all this had been for nothing!_ \- trap. Holding the phone close to her face, taking a deep, shuddering breath, she instructed, "Call Sherlock."

There was nothing to do after that but wait for him to answer - and pray to a God she only partially believed in that her impulsive actions hadn't destroyed whatever backup plans Sherlock and Mycroft had put in place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everyone had ideas and theories about Molly's secret. I hope the dark truth of the matter didn't disappoint. A shoutout to gettingovergreta for inspiring this fic. Thank you to her and thank you to you all for your reviews and comments. Only a couple of (short) chapters left to go, including (possibly) an alternate ending because I'm feeling like a Halloweeny Meanie, hee hee hee!
> 
> For video footage of a pair of mated/conjoined anglerfish, I invite you to follow this link:
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XhsyZnVx2rQ


	4. Face to Face to...Face??

**Two Years Later**

At a nondescript house on the outskirts of the remote Scottish Highlands town of Applecross, a doorbell rang. A muffled teenaged voice ( _female,_ _fif_ _teen,_ _sixteen_ _at most, socially inclined, cheerful, helpful_ ) called out "I'll get it!" from somewhere inside. Footsteps ( _hurried, eager, confirming both social inclination and eagerness to be of help to others, good, hurry up, this has taken too long as it is_ ) sounded on a hardwood floor, and within seconds the door was open.

The welcoming smile on the teenage girl's face disappeared as she took in the visitor's appearance. "Oh," was all she said as she stared up at him wonderingly. "You - you're Sherlock Holmes."

Stunned into silence, all Sherlock could do was stare right back down at her, the hairs on the back of his arms and neck rising as he took in the details - the impossible details - that meant either he was going insane or somehow Molly Hooper had discovered the Fountain of Youth.

_Chestnut hair cut shoulder-length (ends and fringe dyed cherry red and bright green)._

_Wide brown eyes fringed in thick black lashes making them seem larger than they actually were, almost too large for her heart-shaped face._

_Classic English Rose complexion, slight sprinkling of freckles across the uptilted, Pixieish nose indicating time spent in the summer sun._

(He'd seen Molly with freckles once, that same dusting across that same nose, how was this possible, how, how- FOCUS!)

_Small mouth, bright pink lipstick making it look larger, more in proportion with her eyes._

_Small mole on the left side of her neck, roughly two inches below her ear. Just like the one he_ _'d stared at so many times, longing to touch it, to kiss it - WRONG, inappropriate, focus dammit!_

_Exact same fucking height and weight, give or take a pound._

_Even the teeth were the same, the way she worried at her bottom lip, the way she hugged her arms around herself, the shape of her earlobes, her every measurement_ _…_

Impossible, but there she was: Molly Hooper, aged fifteen (or sixteen).

_Once you have eliminated the impossible..._

Never had he found himself so at a loss, so frightened of losing control of his faculties, short of when he'd been drugged during the Baskerville case.

"How…" he croaked out, when their frozen tableau was interrupted by the sound of a door opening from somewhere inside the house. Footsteps coming down the stairs, a voice - the right voice, impossible, how - calling out to them.

"Who is it, Frankie?"

"It's me, Molly."

The footsteps faltered to a halt; silence settled over them all, broken only by the whispering of the wind - and from somewhere deeper in the house, the sound of childish laughter and then a baby crying.

The footsteps resumed, coming closer, closer, until there she was, Molly Hooper - the real Molly Hooper, not some childish, fantastical version of herself - in the flesh.

Molly Hooper, whom everyone - John, Lestrade, even Mycroft - had insisted was dead. Molly Hooper, who had vanished at roughly the same time he had jumped to his supposed death from the roof of St. Bart's, after she'd told him that Moriarty was dead, what his plans had been, how there was only one way to stop those plans -

"Was it because of Moriarty?" he blurted out as Molly came to a stop directly behind her younger doppelganger. ( _Who was the girl, unimportant, some relative or other he'd overlooked during his frantic search into Molly's past, her family, her history; a detailed comparison would no doubt prove her to not be as much of a lookalike as h_ _is initial shock had led him to believe_ _..._ ) "They never found a body, I never told anyone but Mycroft what you said, about him being dead. Did you think you were a fugitive, that you'd be arrested? Is that why you ran, why you hid?"

"Frankie, please go upstairs and take care of your sister, if you don't mind? Mr.- Mr. Holmes and I need to talk."

"Yeah, OK, s-sure," the younger girl stammered, keeping her gaze focused on Sherlock, looking just as gobsmacked as he was currently feeling. She stumbled back into the house, pausing only long enough for a comforting hug from her - older cousin? Sister? Surely not… "Mum, will you be OK?"

Molly kissed the girl's forehead, hugged her close before letting her go. "Yeah," she said softly, eyes still locked with Sherlock's. "I'll be all right. Just get Jamie up, change her nappie, and bring her into the parlour with Tommie and Dani."

"OK." Then Molly's...daughter. Her _teenaged daughter_ slipped into the house, leaving them standing on the doorstep alone, reunited for the first time since that terrible day two years prior.

"So," Molly said, teeth worrying at her lower lip exactly as her daughter's had been only moments before. "Not dead, then. The plan worked even though I bolloxed it up? That's..good." She nodded. "That's good," she repeated softly, arms crossed over her chest, hands cradling elbows in a defensive gesture he recognized well. "I guess you have, um, questions." She let out a nervous laugh. "I should have known you'd be able to track me down, being a consulting detective and al-"

"Molly." He cut off her nervous rambling as firmly as he could, given his own current state of emotional disturbance. "This isn't an interrogation. I just came to make sure you were all right. To prove to myself that everyone was wrong, that you weren't dead, that you'd vanished of your own accord and not been kidnapped or threatened into leaving. Was it because of Moriarty?" he asked again.

She shook her head, paused, then shrugged. "Yes, but not the way you're thinking. Not because I thought I'd be charged for his murder. I left because - " she let out a sigh. "I left because I knew you - that you might not actually be dead," she whispered, although there was no one around to hear them. "And if you came back, then you'd have, you'd have questions and I just...I knew I couldn't explain what had happened, not in a way that you'd believe me, not without jeopardizing, well, this." She gestured to indicate the house and presumably its occupants. "I was afraid you wouldn't understand, that you'd hold me accountable, and I couldn't risk that."

He could feel his face hardening into a cold mask, his hands clenching and unclenching from where he held them behind his back. Not because he was angry at her actions, but because she had run away from him. Was her faith in him so badly shaken, was her trust in him so fragile, that she'd feared to tell him the truth?

 _You trusted her and she thinks she betrayed that trust. That she ruined your plans by her actions, whatever they actually were. Of_ course _she ran away._

His rising anger began to cool; he clasped his hands together and regarded her as a client rather than a friend. "Tell me," he said simply. "I promise I'll listen to the entire story without interruption. But you have to tell me everything."

She gazed up at him through troubled eyes, teeth worrying at her lower lip before she finally responded - as he'd known she would - with a nod. "Right," she said. "Best come inside so I can show you my, my family." She took a deep breath. "My daughters."

Daughters. Plural. His breath caught, but he forced it back out in a slow, even exhale. Centering himself. Whatever her story, clearly he knew far less about Molly Hooper than he'd believed.

How..( _interesting, annoying, unbelievable, unlikely_ )...exciting?

Yes. How absolutely, extraordinarily exciting!

Heart suddenly thundering in his chest, he followed her through the door and down the rabbit hole.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to mouse9 for reading this chapter over. Many thanks to all who've been able to comment, it means the world to me!


	5. Molly's Story

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are folks, the final chapter. I hope you enjoyed the story as much as I enjoyed your comments. Unbeta'd so all mistakes are my own.

She escorted him inside, to the parlour, where Frankie sat holding an infant girl, also with Molly's chocolate brown eyes peering over him from above her bottle. On either end of the sofa across from Frankie's seat were two younger girls - one about twelve, one possibly eight or nine - also with Molly's eyes. And nose. And ears, lips, hair...it was as if Molly was a Matryoshka, a Russian Nesting Doll; stand them in a line and the only differences would be in size and age.

She introduced him to Tommie, the pre-teen, and Dani, the younger of the three, and then the baby.

Jamie.

Another boy's name for a girl-child; why? The obvious answer was that they had been named for their fathers. And since all four had been introduced as Hoopers, perhaps it was a way to honor those (absentee? deceased?) men.

No surprise they were all Hoopers; his frantic investigation into Molly's life these past few weeks had revealed that her deceased father - not her biological father, no record of who that might be as her birth cert listed that particular relationship as 'unknown' but rather the man who had raised her before dying of cancer during her first year of medical school - had taken her mother's last name. A matrilineal family, he'd set that interesting fact aside for further research when it became clear that all Hooper men took their wives' last name, but not worth spending more time on during his search for Molly Hooper in the here and now.

Nor had that search revealed the existence of any of Molly's daughters. Why keep them a secret, were all their fathers as dangerous as Moriarty, or was there some more mundane reason? Abusive men, irresponsible men, one-night-stands, who were they?

 _Where_ were they? Why weren't they a part of their daughters' lives except as namesakes?

All these thoughts, questions, deductions raced through his mind as Molly told the girls that she and Mr. Holmes ( _Dad, here? Oh no, right, himself,_ he _was Mr. Holmes_ ) had some grown-up matters to discuss ( _Frankie looked at her mother askance, almost looked as if she was going to say something, then closed her mouth and nodded, interesting, she knew something about Molly's secret, her mother's secret_ ) and then led him back out of the parlour and up the stairs to the first floor.

She hesitated a moment on the landing, then opened a door revealing another set of stairs. "The attic's the most private spot," she explained (needlessly) as they ascended to the next floor. "We'll be able to hear if any of the girls try to listen in. Not that I think they'd do anything like that but, well, they all know who you are and you being here is important and…"

She trailed off without finishing her thought, whatever it might have been, and looked nervously at her hands. "Even though I knew this day was coming, I still haven't quite figured out how to explain things to you."

"You might start with the night Moriarty died. If, of course, he actually is dead." He hadn't meant for that to come out quite as accusatory as it did, but he needed to know that much first, before Molly shared whatever other terrible secret she'd been hiding from him - and it was a terrible secret, there was no doubt about that in his mind whatsoever. Nor was there any doubt that it was tied to Moriarty's death in some way, to that infant who bore Molly's features and his enemy's name.

_(Ignore the jealousy that thought provokes, compartmentalize, save that unexpected reaction for future analysis.)_

"No, he's dead," Molly insisted. "He died when I said he did. And yes," she added with a sigh, "he's Jamie's father. Even if it seems impossible -"

"Sperm donor?" Sherlock shouldn't feel as incredulous as he did, having that suspicion confirmed, but it was an undeniable fact that he found this particular truth difficult to believe. Molly had been the one to break things off with Moriarty, well before his true identity had been known; Molly had been horrified to discover that she'd been dating a murderous psychopath; there was no way she'd willingly have his child.

Unless she had no choice in the matter.

She let out an unexpected laugh at his question. "Um, yes, actually, but not, not in the conventional way. Not the way you're thinking - oh fuck!" she exclaimed, the expletive as unexpected as the laugh had been. "Look Sherlock, I know you. You've been given a mystery and I know you won't just let it be, you won't just take my word for things, that there's a reason I've kept my family a secret, so I'm going to just...just show you."

She pulled her mobile out of her pocket. "I thought about deleting this, but every time I went to do it, something stopped me. Well," she added with a shaky laugh, "not some _thing_. Some _one_. You, to be exact. I always knew you'd show up one day, and I've never been able to say no to you. So I saved it. You watch this, okay? You watch it and I'll answer any questions you have as best I can." She pressed the mobile into his hand, looking him straight in the eye as she spoke. "Just remember, Sherlock, I've never lied to you, I never would lie to you. This video you're about to watch...it's not a lie, either. It's real, even if you might not want to believe it." Then, her voice, low, barely audible even though they stood less than two feet apart, "It's how Jim Moriarty died, that night two years ago."

Then she turned away, crossed the length of the attic to the small, dusty window opposite the one under which she'd left him. Settled herself onto an equally dusty trunk, and watched as he held the phone up and pressed 'play' on the video she'd queued up for him.

He watched the video in silence, all twenty minutes of it. Then he played it again, a second time, then a third time, all while Molly waited patiently at the other end of the attic. No one interrupted them; no small voices called for her, no one rattled the door handle or complained about being left alone for so long.

Frankie, he thought distractedly as he rewatched the final minutes of the video for the third time, must be quite the expert at managing her younger sisters. Or else the three older girls were far less impatient or curious than he would have been at their various ages.

He started to press 'play' one more time, then hesitated. Closed the phone. Crossed over to return it to Molly.

Watching it again would tell him nothing new.

She looked at him as he sat next to her on the lid of the trunk, accepted the mobile in silence. Waited for him to speak.

Judging by her choked laughter, she wasn't expecting his first words to be, "Nature has certainly gifted you with a unique way of hiding a body, I'll give you that."

"Yeah, you can thank my mum and her mum and her mum before her for that," she said once she'd regained control of her voice. There were tears gathering in the corners of her eyes again, why? "All us Hooper women have the same weird biology. The same curse. No one knows how it happened, or when, that's lost to history, as the saying goes. But yeah. Hiding a body, that's the easy part for us."

"Tell me."

So she told him. Told him how all the Hooper women shared the same reproductive quirk as that of the various anglerfish species. Told him how her sisters had died - two from suicide, just like so many of their aunts and great-aunts and ancestors had done - the other after undergoing an abortion. "She just...bled out," Molly said, her voice a soft monotone that did nothing to hide her obvious pain at the memory. "I didn't find out what really happened until after...after I was pregnant with Frankie."

"Who was her father?"

He hadn't meant to ask that extremely personal question, but under the circumstances...she _had_ told him to ask anything he wanted.

"My boyfriend. First one. Last one for a long time after that." A sad smile graced her lips, quickly vanishing. "Frank Llewellyn. My parents didn't know we were seeing each other." Resentment tinged her words. "My parents didn't want to freak me out, to scare me, so they didn't warn me what might happen if I had sex." She let out a snort. "Aside from the usual, that is - STIs, normal pregnancies. So you can imagine my shock, my absolute horror when Frank just...lost control. Bit me. But I, I liked it. What came after, though - well. You saw the video with Moriarty. I screamed and my father came running and found us, but it was too late for Frankie." Her voice dropped to a pained whisper. "Once he bit me it was too late but I didn't know that, not then. I kept begging my father to help me, but he couldn't. And my mum had to explain things while I was still...absorbing him into my body."

She sounded ashamed, even after sixteen - no, seventeen - years. Why? It hadn't been her fault, after all.

Still, she must have known what would happen after that first time, and yet she had had other children, other daughters, before Jamie.

Seeing the question in his eyes, or perhaps just anticipating it, she continued on. "Tommie was...it was rape," she said bluntly. "During summer recess my third year of uni. I didn't have any other way to fight back. And Dani's father...he was a medical student." She let out a wistful sigh. "I thought I had it under control, you see, that I could get involved with someone safely. And frankly, I was lonely. Daniel was funny, and clever, and we had so much in common." This time her sigh was melancholy. "You can guess how that turned out, deduce it I mean."

"Not well," Sherlock said succinctly.

Molly shook her head. "No, not well," she agreed. "But when it was...happening, while he was still aware of things...he was so full of questions, and I had no answers for him. But he gave me some ideas, put me on track to find a way to suppress my pheromones so I could safely have sex in the future. That's, um, why I wasn't worried about asking you out."

She blushed, although Sherlock had to scan his memory to figure out what she was talking about. That Christmas...no, she'd made no verbal advances, although he supposed the fact that she'd signed her gift for him "Dearest Sherlock, Love Molly" with the three X's indicating kisses could be construed as asking him out. Maybe?

"The coffee," she supplied with another blush while he stared at her. "When you were, um, whipping that body? I asked you for coffee and you gave me your order."

"Ah. That." He did remember it, had buried but not deleted it. Just as he'd never deleted anything about Molly Hooper. He knew her measurements, her taste in clothing, her favorite foods...and now he knew so much more than he'd ever expected to learn.

And wasn't that wonderful!

His face split in a wide grin. "Molly Hooper," he proclaimed, grasping her by the upper arms and pulling her close enough to plant an enthusiastic kiss on her forehead. "International Woman of Mystery, mother of four, Human Anglerfish - would you like to have coffee with me?"

"But, but, don't you have other questions?" Molly sputtered in confusion. But she allowed him to take her hands, to help her to her feet. "Aren't you, I dunno, skeptical? Horrified? Disgusted?"

"Disgusted? By you? Never," he asserted. "Fascinated is closer to how I feel. Intrigued. Eager to learn more, yes but not until I've had time to - you'll forgive the term - absorb what you've told me so far." He grinned.

Molly rolled her eyes. "And you tell me not to make jokes!" But his pun had the desired effect of pulling a reluctant smile from her lips.

"And yet that never stopped you," he reminded her. "Just as my cold words - those 'terrible things' I always say - never stopped you from being my...friend." It was a word he didn't use lightly, but he didn't hesitate to use it now. "Never stopped you from being there when I needed you most. So no, to answer the question you haven't asked me, I won't be turning you into the police for murder, and no, I won't be turning you over to my brother or the mad science types at Baskerville or any other research group so they can study you. What I will do is help protect you and your secret, and to help find a way to keep your daughters from suffering the way you have. If you'll have me, of course."

Strange how his heart was suddenly pounding in his chest, how sweaty his palms had become, even though he was confident Molly wouldn't turn him down.

Or not so strange after all; as she smiled, nodded, and stretched up to press a soft kiss to his cheek, he turned his head, capturing her lips with his own. She squeaked in surprise, but allowed the kiss to continue, even kissed him back.

It felt...right. Like coming home. How had it taken him so long to understand, to realize what he felt for her?

Well, he always did miss something. And when it came to Molly Hooper, he managed to miss a great deal. Honestly, that should have been his first clue.

As the kiss ended, he smiled down at her. She was staring up at him somewhat dazedly, and he couldn't help but chuckle when she blurted out, "No sex unless you're willing to wear a gag."

He tucked her hand into the crook of his arm, covering her fingers warmly with his own. "Believe it or not, Molly, I quite look forward to it."

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to mouse9 and gettingovergreta who read this over for me. You guys rock!


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